


at need

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Businessmen, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, M/M, Office Blow Jobs, Office Sex, Promnis Week, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Semi-Public Sex, Suit Porn, Tumblr Prompt, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Sometimes it's the giving, sometimes it's the taking -- and it's always about the experience, for Ignis and his Prompto.





	at need

**Author's Note:**

> _written for[promnis week 2019](https://promnisweek.tumblr.com/)_   
>  _nsfw theme from day 1: Prompto blows Ignis under his desk while he’s in a meeting_   
> 

“I know you were worried about the impact of the weather on my country’s shores, Ignis,” and that is the crisp cool accent riding the edges of Crowe’s words, loud and clear in his ears where he’s wearing a sleek earpiece to tune in to her meeting. A meeting in the behind-the-scenes of a major business summit, involving not only the linked Galahdian family corporations but also a loose confederation of Spirean enterprises, and he’s been entrusted with preparations for the decisions that will be made at this summit, and that’s why he’s tuned in to the beforehand maneuvering, and that’s why he’s paying close attention now.

Although -- there’s a flash of light, a flash of movement, out of the corner of his eye -- he throws a glance over his shoulder, where the door into his office is still moving, back into being closed and then -- a loud and definite click.

The world, and Crowe’s voice, temporarily drops out of his perception, when he recognizes the crisp gray shirt in its fine white pinstripes, the navy-blue suit that’s still short a tie, the patch of pink flowers in riotous vibrant embroidery over his visitor’s heart -- and Ignis smiles, shakes his head, and tunes back in.

Says, “I’ve no doubt we’ll find ways to work around these difficulties, together. We’ve done so in the past; there’s no reason not to do so again.”

A spike of an amused chuckle is the first response he hears, followed by: “The friendship that you and the Lucis Caelums have extended to us has been invaluable.”

“And we like to think that we, too, have benefited from your considerable expertise and knowledge,” he says. 

“So we’ll carry on here. I expect this meeting to continue, but perhaps there will be too many other niceties to manage, first, before we get on into the thick of it. I wouldn’t presume to waste your time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Prompto coming around his desk. He can see Prompto pulling his phone out of his pocket -- typing, swift movement of swift slender fingers, and then that phone is being offered to him.

“You’ll only need to call my attention,” he says, trying to sound calm and reassuring.

Trying to, because the unsent message on the screen in his hand says _Can I, can we?_

He taps a button on his own phone, clamped securely into the articulating arm attached to his chair: one, two, three times, just to make sure he’s turned the mic off completely. 

Then he raises his eyes to the thundercloud-expressions in Prompto’s eyes and he allows himself to frown. “What is it this time?”

Shake of the head. Blond hair falling out of its expertly gelled and tousled style. The lit lamp on Ignis’s desk catches in the multitude of earrings riding the upper shell of Prompto’s left ear, four gunmetal-black hoops and the fine chain woven into them.

Single jade-green bead, solo stud piercing, in Prompto’s right ear -- twin to the only piece of jewelry Ignis wears these days, a small and comforting weight in his left earlobe. 

Prompto’s hand taking the phone back, too, and then -- _I don’t want to talk._

Gesture of a freckled hand, brush of fingertips across the throat.

Ignis reaches out to that wayward hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “Don’t I owe you from the last time? You know I don’t much like being in debt,” he says, the last words a deliberate tease, heavy intent dripping from every syllable.

“Then owe me two,” Prompto whispers, so low that Ignis has to crane upwards a little, to make sure he’s heard all the words clearly. 

And: “Please?”

He taps the air next to his right ear. “I can’t get out of this one.”

Prompto’s grin in response would have knocked him straight to his knees, straight to the floor, if he’d only been standing, he thinks: the grin of a challenge, the grin of too many reckless hours. 

There’s a direct connection, he thinks, between his senses and that grin -- a connection that completely bypasses his brain, that runs thrilling down his every nerve, that makes his shirt and his waistcoat and -- in particular -- his trousers feel tight and constricting.

One more glance over his shoulder -- the door is closed. His heavy desk is still between him and that door. 

He smiles back and catches Prompto by the hips -- and exerts pressure, pushes him down to the floor, and that soft wicked laughter, sweet on Prompto’s mouth, vibrates through Ignis in a shivering rumble.

Hand on the collar of Ignis’s waistcoat and he yields, grateful and needy, into the marauding kiss that slams against him -- the almost hungry, almost feral sigh that drops from Prompto’s mouth and into the narrowing spaces between them -- drives into him like a knife, like spikes, he’s always surprised Prompto never draws any blood from him when he kisses him like this -- 

Burst of sound from his earpiece -- Crowe’s voice and several others, some kind of hushed intense conference of whispers -- he can’t tune in, he can’t focus, not on them. Not when Prompto’s so carefully scraping the edges of teeth along his throat, meandering teasing multiple directions. Up to nip casually at the junction of his ear and his cheek, and then down to press feather-light around his Adam’s apple -- he catches a hard breath and grips the armrests forcefully. 

He knows he’s spreading his legs, helpless and burning up already, and Prompto hasn’t even been here five minutes.

No sooner has he become aware of it than his thoughts scatter again -- clever fingers pull apart the halves of his waistcoat, the halves of his shirt, the buttons falling away as if charmed, and Ignis is already more than mostly undone when Prompto starts pressing hot kisses over his sternum -- kisses that are followed by words that almost sound like prayers.

“Prompto,” he mutters, just as soundlessly.

“Ignis.” And that’s the first time Prompto’s said his name since coming in.

“Fuck,” he says, for that dear deep voice that he only gets to hear in these moments. 

And he has to fight away from the ticklish fire that Prompto’s spreading over his skin, the knowing flutter of fingertips and nails in turn, alternating between sharp searing and warm soothing, although nothing about him in this moment can make Ignis relax.

Precisely the opposite: he’s already gasping as though he’s swum twenty rapid laps, and he hasn’t even moved that much.

Now Prompto is mouthing at his skin -- he shivers as he understands the kisses being planted along the edges of his scars, all the marks on his body that he hides beneath his perfectly pressed layers, because some of those kisses fall on entirely numb spots and yet Prompto lingers, and Ignis knows he’s about ready to shake himself to pieces, following the path of Prompto’s mouth, following the shapes of the bruises that he’s leaving behind.

And the teasing kiss that Prompto presses right into the button-fly on his elegant suit-trousers -- the sight and the sound and the pressure of him makes Ignis lift his hand to his mouth. Makes him bite savagely at his knuckles, because he can’t make a sound here, because he can’t come undone yet, not even when every thought in his mind has been wiped away, ten and twenty times over.

He slouches, he sucks in another hard breath, as Prompto undoes those buttons and -- he lifts his hips a little. Prompto’s fingers against the plain black of his briefs, red and warm enough he can see their startling flush, feel their gentle press into his skin.

“Call to order,” Crowe says, clearly, in his ear, followed by a quieter throat-clearing cough. “May I remind the meeting at large that we have a live connection to LC at this time.”

He thinks he looks like a fool, flailing at his phone, clicking the mic on -- but his voice sounds amazingly steady when he murmurs, “Call me at need.”

“Thank you,” is Crowe’s response, blurring syllables.

Because Prompto is licking along the waistband of his briefs, and Ignis feels another frisson of need run through him, watching the contrast of that pink teasing against his own flesh, against the fabric that he’s still wearing.

Hand, closing on him.

The world fades to black, to noise, and Ignis only has one more hazy moment to admire the shape of Prompto’s hand and its easy grip on his cock.

Laughter along his straining nerves, shiver to go with the blood-rush roaring in his ears, and he can’t look away as Prompto kisses the base of his cock. 

He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t, when Prompto finally takes him in -- slowly, like he has nothing else to do, like he has nothing else he’d rather do -- but he does try to click the mic on his phone off again and he thinks he succeeds.

Oh, the inexorable shattering fire down every last inch of his nerves. Wet heat around him, the press and the curl of Prompto’s tongue. The little movements of his hand that’s still gripping Ignis at the base.

It should have been a relief, when Prompto starts to move at last -- it should have meant some kind of snap in the delicious delirious tension threading through him -- but no, it’s just another turn of the screw, another, another, with every swallow around him. Every stroke of tongue and teeth and that hand. Every obscene and beautiful noise he makes.

There’s a decision being made on the other side of the phone line, and he can only barely remember that he doesn’t get to cast a vote in this one, so he actually doesn’t have to listen.

And he can hear a distant complaining creak somewhere in the vicinity of his hands and wrists, but he doesn’t even understand what that sound could mean.

He’s racked on that blissful tug of war between two sets of impulses: succumb now, or succumb later.

The only thing he can really think of is that -- oh, he’s so close, so close already that he can’t catch his breath -- he finally musters the will to tear his eyes away from Prompto on his knees, from that incredible mouth -- but that leaves him with the sound of Prompto’s rasping breaths, loud and short and lewd, and that’s even worse, even better -- he’s starting to fall -- 

“Come on.”

Prompto, commanding him.

What else can he do?

Sob of pure need and pure grateful lust sticking in his throat.

He spirals out of himself, out of the world, out of the virtual meeting going on, for a long moment.

Movement, vague and gentle, somewhere near his ear, like a weight being lifted from his shoulders, and when he blinks he’s neatly done up again, and Prompto is intent on the two phones in his hands -- his own, and Ignis’s.

Shape of Ignis’s own earpiece in Prompto’s ear.

And he blinks, and laughs a little, and touches Prompto’s wrist to get his attention. Murmurs, “Report.”

“They’re discussing setting up a new subsidiary in -- mmph!”

He’s smiling even as he kisses Prompto, thoroughly, like he’s making him a promise, like he’s already plotting to return a favor --

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/) \-- or, hey, if Tumblr becomes too rotten and we can't talk there any more, there's always Twitter, where I am @ninemoons42.


End file.
